I love the fact that my dad is writing again. Not only do I get to learn about his past, I also learn things about myself and my family. It’s also a history lesson in many ways. Here’s another installment.

Garden of Stone
April 1960

My maternal grandfather died in 1951, and for reasons of health, my grandmother lived with us until her death in September of 1959. Both were buried, along with many of my mother’s family at Spring Creek Cemetery, which was named after the small stream that flowed into California Creek. It was a beautiful, well-kept rural burial place that was founded before 1900 by pioneer farmers who made their homes in the area. I was home on leave from the army, before my separation from the service in early September. I drove down many of the old familiar back roads, and I stopped at the little country cemetery to pay respect to my relatives and take a short stroll back in time.

**

It was incredibly hot in that tiny, wood-frame Methodist church. It was in early May of 1951; I was eleven years old; and I was practically hysterical with fear at my grandfather’s funeral. I had never been to a funeral before, much less a funeral for a relative. I managed to survive the short trip to Spring Creek for the interment, but my trauma lasted for several years. It was much different when I came back home, and we buried my grandmother. I was one of the six grandsons that was a pall bearer. I felt awkward, being the only one wearing a military uniform, until I realized that two of my older cousins who were pall bearers, were also Coast Guard veterans of World War II. They understood. Mother had asked me to wear my uniform, rather than a suit. Although I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, I was honored that she asked.

**

I was approaching my 21st birthday, and as I stood in respect at my grandparent’s resting place, I tried to remember only the good times that we had spent together, even though I had known them mostly as a child. If there were any bad thoughts about either of them, I could not remember a single thing. They were pioneers that were kind, religious, and hard working people. They both had many friends and heirs who would testify to that. It didn’t matter that they spent most of their lives, living mostly hand to mouth. For the most part, I had done the same thing most of my life, and all of us still found that special happiness that could not be measured by a person’s bank account.

One thing was certain: Spring Creek Cemetery has always been a beautiful place. As many rural cemeteries, it has been methodically cared for by a volunteer association of family members for over 50 years. The turf is basically native buffalo and Bermuda grasses that are neatly trimmed at all times. Perennial cedars have been planted on many of the plots, and the ornamental flowers around the head stones are augmented by native flowers that bloom each spring. There is waist-high, ornamental wire fence that surrounds the area. That fence had been there, for as long I could remember, with a main gate in the center and side roads from the center to each end. The cemetery is parallel to a county road that intersects a paved Farm-to-Market road, which allows easy access to town.

There were no rest homes or care facilities for the aged and infirmed that were available, either before, or during the time I was growing up. Families took care of their own people, when they were unable to live alone. We took care of my grandmother, and she lived with us for the last seven years of her life, just as my grandparents took care of their parents. Taking care of your family was not considered to be an obligation or chore; it was an accepted way of life. A few feet from my grandparents’ grave was the resting place of my great grand parents, Patrick and Charity Jane White. They both died in the 1930’s, and all that I personally knew of them was what my mother had said, which I thought was both colorful and unique.

The cemetery was interspersed with many government head stones that marked the resting places of veterans from both world wars and the Korean conflict. My great grandfather’s head stone was that of a Civil War veteran. I had an older cousin who did extensive genealogy of Mother’s family, and it took several years, before the government confirmed that he was a Civil War veteran, and only then would they provide the family with a military head stone. It was the only one of that type that I had ever seen. Mother told me that they both lived somewhere in the southern states, and when he was a young man, he was circuit-riding Methodist preacher in the Confederacy, riding horseback and preaching throughout the South. They lived the last years of their lives with my grandparents, and they were buried here.

As I walked down the rows of markers of various size and shapes, I noticed many familiar names. Most notably missing was my cousin who was killed overseas during World War II. My uncle had opted to have his son buried in a military cemetery in France. Most of the head stones were family friends and neighbors of my grand parents, that I had never met, but I had heard their names spoken, many times over the years. There were a few that I did remember seeing at the daily domino game, that was held in a vacant store building near the cotton gin. There were usually two tables of retired farmers, smoking cigars, playing dominoes, and talking about the crops and the weather. They seldom talked about people, unless a friend was ill. As a child, I concluded: real men don’t waste their time on gossip. The domino hall was open every day except Sunday. That was always the day of rest, church services, and family reunions. It was a simple, but wholesome way of life.

It occurred to me that cemetery was never meant to be a place of fear or anxiety. It was meant to be a place of respect and honor, just as I had stopped here today for that purpose: to pay respect to my family and friends who were here. It is also a storehouse of un-tapped, historical knowledge. Every marker represented the sum total of an individual- all of his or her lifetime endeavors, achievements, and failures. If only there was a way to tap that source of knowledge-but it was not meant to be that way: it was buried with them. I would have to find other sources of information, and share the knowledge of my life time, with those who might seek it. Youths seek wisdom; adults apply it to creative arts and sciences; and elders are the storehouse of knowledge.

It was time for me to go back home and prepare for my return trip to my army unit. As I straddled the wire fence and stepped out on the gravel road, I looked back at Spring Creek, and my thoughts were, how many small, rural cemeteries are there, just like this one, across the heartland of our great Country? I could think of a half a dozen that were in this county, alone. No matter where their location, I could see them in my mind’s eye, and they all likely had the same similarities: they would never be viewed only as the final resting place of family members and friends. These were honored places were like a garden, and the people who were buried there would always be alive in their hearts and minds.

The warm, summer breeze came through the open window of my car, and as I looked back one more time, I saw that the breeze was gently waving the stands of native Blue Bonnets and Indian Blanket that were growing between the rows of small, granite obelisks and monoliths that marked the end of someone’s life’s journey. I knew that this place would remain the same, for as long as those who survived would tend it. Just like in any other garden, the flowers would die each fall, and they would come back in the spring. With passing years, the occupants and the number of granite markers will arise among the nurtured flowers, and as in many rural cemeteries, it will become a garden of stone.